


Midnight Alstroemerias

by Kazura



Series: Souls Worth Saving [1]
Category: Disgaea 5: Alliance of Vengeance
Genre: Arguing, Gen, Post-Canon, Self-Indulgent, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 09:05:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazura/pseuds/Kazura
Summary: Unable to sleep, Seraphina hunts down a Prinny—any Prinny—whom she can command to find anything that could help. She finds someone else.





	Midnight Alstroemerias

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate summary: Void gets a taste of Seraphina's frustrating stubbornness and peculiar logic.
> 
>  **Contains** : Verbal fight, mentions of past suicidal thoughts

Seraphina shouldn’t have gone to the wedding reception, no matter how proper it would have been. And it was, as she and the rest of the Rebel Army were explicitly invited and expected to be there, but she certainly wasn’t in the mood to watch two relative strangers celebrate their decision to spend the rest of their lives together. It was to give hope to their people, they said. Give them something to smile about again, they said.

But the celebration made her think far too much, and it should have come as no surprise that she spent the most of her evening attempting to chase away unwanted thoughts about pretty, ill-named flowers who boasted no thorns.

She’s in her nightgown, a frilly white thing that reaches her ankles and has long sleeves, but remains to be rather thin to be in if she were going to leave the warmth provided by her room. After spending a good ten minutes sifting through her many robes, she picks a pink one and wears it over her nightgown. Picking slippers of a matching color doesn't take as long.

Anything would be better than doing nothing. Worse, staring at her ceiling and being assaulted by her own destructive thoughts. A cup of tea would have been most welcome, but, as she soon finds after leaving her room, the Prinnies went all out with partying as well, knocking themselves out in the process. She contemplated shooting bullets into the lot of them, but that was before she caught a glimpse of one of the few who didn’t bother going to the reception.

“I’ll only ruin the mood,” Void said that morning, refusing to meet his sister’s eyes when she asked him to come with them. He refused to meet anyone else’s, for that matter. “I’ll continue working on the restoration.” He didn’t leave anyone room to argue, and even Liezerota gave up. After all, he certainly had a point.

So he does know tact. Seraphina wasn’t as surprised as she thought she’d be.

Before she knew it, she’s already opened her mouth. “My. I didn't expect you'd still be here. Isn't it about time you went home?” she calls out, her voice loud and clear against the silence of the food court.

Void, who’s seated alone in one of the tables, looks at her with wide eyes. He couldn’t have possibly thought she wouldn’t notice him now, could he? Or did it occur to him that she wouldn’t have any reason to call out to him? He would have been right, if that were the case. On any other day, that is. But she’d take anything. Even if it meant talking to the twin brother of the very woman she’s trying to avoid directing malicious thoughts at.

Liezerota means no harm. Common sense insists that much. But Seraphina’s petty and prideful and doesn’t know when to give up.

She furrows her brow. Perhaps this wasn’t a very good idea after all.

“I’m sorry,” Void says. “I'm…working.” In his hand is a black ballpoint pen, while laid out in front of him are receipts, a balance book, and a calculator. She’s hardly one to pry into the expenses of another person—unless it affects her and her Netherworld’s coffers, of course—so she doesn’t look closer at the numbers. It seems innocent enough. It hardly explains why he’s chosen to do it here, however.

Years after the threat posed by the Carnage Dimension had been completely dealt with, Void and the rest of his family chose to go back to Flowerful. Seraphina declared that they’re still welcome in her Pocket Netherworld and in Gorgeous at any time, of course, especially Sir Killia, but she would have hardly thought Void himself would choose to spend the night outside the Netherworld he calls home when everyone else remained there.

Curiosity getting the better of her—and she’s convinced that it’s completely justified, as it is her Netherworld—she asks, “Wouldn’t you find it more comfortable to do that in your own home?”

Void looks down at his balance book. He doesn’t bother looking up when he responds. “I tried, the first few times. But my sister always catches me. She’s been…”

“Pestering?”

“Asking. Asking me to go to bed every time she does.” He peers at his pen, as if it were the most interesting implement in the Netherworlds. In a much quieter voice, he adds, “My sister doesn’t pester me.”

Ah. “Of course.”

“I can leave, if you’d like me to.”

“No need. You may stay, as long as you refrain from doing anything unsavory.”

“Thank you,” he says, his voice quiet. Solemn. It grounds her to reality as she realizes that she’s starting to get used to it. To the idea that the very demon before her is sincere in his attempts to make up for the sins he’s committed. It’s odd, even if it had already been a few years since he first came here, and will likely continue being odd for many more years to come, but her fingers no longer twitch for her gun whenever she feels his magic in the air. It’s certainly progress.

Curiosity sated, she waggles her fingers at Void before walking away, her mind drifting back to her quest. She’s no stranger to iced tea, and there could be some left in one of the refrigerators, but she hardly thinks it would be able to aid her in falling back to sleep. Maybe she could heat up some milk. Yes. Yes, that would do. As a child, she would often have a warm mug to lull her to sleep. What a brilliant idea.

“Where are you going?”

“Hm?” She turns around, raising a delicate eyebrow at Void, who’s looking right back at her with wide eyes. If she didn’t know any better, she would have presumed he said those words in a panic. What an amusing thought. “Why, the kitchen.”

“The Prinnies are asleep,” he says, frowning.

Her face twists into something similar. “Yes, I am well aware. But I needn’t a grand meal. I believe I can accomplish heating up milk on my own.” It shouldn’t be too hard, no?

In her confusion, as if being chased, Void places his receipts in the middle of his book before closing it in a hurry. After capping his pen, he stands up and takes all of his possessions on the table into his arms. “I’ll do it,” he says as he catches up to her in quick, long strides. “Is that all?”

She stares up at him, mouth slightly agape. In her defense, she can’t fathom why he would even bother offering what he has.

Well. He’s no Sir Killia. Far from it. But it’s also no secret that he himself assists his sister around their tiny, sorry excuse of a house, happily helping with chores and answering to Liezerota’s every request. She certainly has them all wrapped around her dainty fingers, hasn’t she?

It’s a bad idea, after all. A very, very bad idea. She’s thinking too much again. It’s hardly healthy.

“Perhaps some biscuits,” she says, pausing ever so slightly after every other syllable. “There should be a tin.”

Void nods, wasting not another second as he heads for the kitchen.

She doesn’t follow. At least, not after she’s stared at his back for a good long while. She can’t quite say that she’s too surprised that he volunteered. He's volunteered for a lot of tasks in the past years. But most of those were related to the restoration. Clearing debris here. Bringing in supplies there. But this is certainly something else. She’s not quite sure as to what she expected, however. That he’ll scoff at her and tell her to go get the biscuits herself? She would have undoubtedly felt enraged, reached for a gun that wasn’t there, and shot him for his impertinence. But he didn’t.

Frowning, and entirely curious once again, she finally follows him into the kitchen. Having set his belongings aside neatly on the counter, he’s already brought out a carton of milk from one of the refrigerators, but he seems to be having a hard time picking which mug to use, if the narrowing of his eyes at the different colored mugs lined up inside one of the drawers is any indication.

She smiles, a small wry one, and walks up next to him. To answer the questioning tilt of his head, she points at the one closest to her—a plain pink mug.

“You’re sure that’s microwavable?”

She furrows her brow. “Microwavable?”

“It could break otherwise.”

“There are plenty of other mugs, aren’t there?”

Mug and milk carton in hand, he frowns, turning away from the microwave and towards the stove. “Would you be against it if I used a double boiler?”

“Pardon?”

“A pan. With a smaller one inside. It would take longer.”

“Oh. No. I suppose that’s fine.”

As she watches him check the cupboards, she looks around for the tin of biscuits she has in mind. Finding it, she drags over a stool to sit on before popping the tin open and reaching inside. It’s far from elegant to stick one's hand into a biscuit tin, but she can forgive it, if they were the only ones present. He hardly strikes her as the kind of demon who would waste his time gossiping about a lady doing unladylike things.

In a strong moment of curiosity, perhaps encouraged by the scene before her—him turning on the stove, filling a big pan with water, watching it come into a simmer before setting a smaller pan filler with milk over it—she wonders if he himself approved of the arranged marriage between them. He might have. They would have been husband and wife, if she didn’t have the foresight to run away when she did. As cowardly as her father was, the defense that he did put up for Gorgeous was unmistakably formidable. Even the magical spear back then simply bounced off, and would have accomplished nothing if her father had enough wisdom to have had it destroyed as soon as it failed in piercing through. Marrying her should have had some benefits, even to him. Did he know? Or was it decided for him? Did Void Dark even consider it worthy of his notice?

The wedding earlier fueled this, no doubt. She carries no affection for the demon heating up a mug of milk for her in the middle of the night, but a marriage having been arranged between the two of them was not something that her imagination simply conjured up.

It’s better than thinking about that too good, too pure sister of his, at least.

Ah. And there it is. Goodness.

“Is all of that really necessary?” she asks, before nibbling on another biscuit. It’s a poor attempt at staving off thoughts of that woman.

But it’s an attempt nonetheless, and he entertains it. “The taste might change…if it’s heated up too quickly,” he says, looking into the pot and stirring.

“I see. You’re certainly knowledgeable about this.”

“It’s not that hard.”

“Why not allow me to do it then?”

The hand that stirs stops. He refuses to look at her.

So that’s what it is. “Who was it?”

“What do you mean?”

She plucks a biscuit from the tin and leers at it. “The one who declared that I’m ‘a disaster in the kitchen’.” When he doesn’t answer, she adds, “I must say, that is an absolute lie. You musn’t readily believe such things.”

This time, he does glance back at her. “You mistook detergent for seasoning.”

She gasps. The most offended noise. “That was a very long time ago!”

What comes next takes Seraphina aback, and she has to blink repeatedly to convince herself of the sight she’s seeing. Of the sounds she’s hearing.

He’s laughing. A chuckle, to be more precise, but the back of his free hand is pressed against his lips, and his shoulders are shaking out of mirth. It doesn’t sound mocking, simply an expression of amusement. She finds she doesn’t hate it.

But a laugh, one so small yet genuine and not filled to the brim with loathing, is something she hasn’t witnessed before. She has no doubt that he does it often in the presence of that woman. She’s family. The reason why he went through terrifying lengths in his attempt to save her. The reason why he’s given up on ending his own life to pay for what he’s done. It’s a given. But in the presence of an almost stranger, Seraphina couldn’t have imagined it.

“Was that incident the reason why everything’s labeled?” He’s stopped laughing, but his voice doesn’t revert to its usual wary tone around her.

She doesn’t answer, shooting back a question of her own instead. “Is it not more convenient that way?”

“It is,” he agrees. He looks back at a shelf nailed to the opposite wall. “I don’t know what some of those even are.”

“I believe my servants have recipe books they would be willing to lend you if you’d like to try your hand at using them,” she says, following his gaze. Bay leaves, cardamom, cumin…. Even she doesn’t know most of the dozens of items labeled in her kitchen. She would’ve thought he would, considering that he’s from Flowerful, but some of them are endemic to other worlds. It sounds reasonable enough.

“It’s fine. Killia would have better use for them. My sister rarely asks for my help in the kitchen nowadays.”

That’s understandable. Sir Killia’s cooking certainly is worthy of being called food of the gods. It would be a mistake not to enjoy it as much as one possibly could. “Well, why not cook for yourself? Better yet, cook for me,” she says, beaming and holding her head high as she dramatically places a hand over her chest.

He stares at her. A blank, quiet stare, looking for answers. She doesn’t know him well enough to know past that. “You’d eat something I make?”

A dry hollow laugh resounds at the back of her mind. She already eats his sister’s cooking. What could be worse than that?

Bad. Not good. Not good at all, Seraphina. Think of something else. Someone else. Talk to him.

“Why not? I hardly think you’d be foolish enough to poison me. Are you?” She smiles, and she hopes it looks teasing, instead of a terrible match to malicious taunts in her head.

“No,” he says. His voice is almost a whisper, and she nearly regrets opening her mouth.

Why he's even willing to talk to Seraphina in the first place is beyond her. Her hatred for his sister is no secret, after all.

“It's unhealthy,” Christo told her once, when he caught her clenching her fists as she leered at Liezerota from afar. He took her aside then, leading her away and trying to coax her to calm down. To breathe. “You'll keep hurting in the long run.”

She had the urge to shoot him then. To scream at him to mind his own business. To demand silence. Instead, she pursed her lips. Looked away. Thought and thought and thought.

It's difficult to rid herself of all thoughts about the woman in question when every spare moment she finds has her drifting back to thoughts about Sir Killia. About what could have been. About what could still be, if she just persevered hard enough. If it weren’t for that woman. It's unhealthy for her, she knows, but people who simply tell others to let go and move on are mostly ones who never had to before. Ones she doesn’t have to listen to.

But Christo also said, “It will be difficult. A long process, no doubt. But start now. Try to, Seraphina. Please. For your own good.”

So she does. She's trying. She hasn't given up on herself. On finding the best happiness that she deserves. But loathing someone through it is not the way. Pretending to smile but gritting her teeth behind closed lips every single time is not the way.

How did Sir Killia do it? How did Void do it? If she continued talking with him, will she find out? Does she have to learn how to purify her own heart to accomplish it?

“I'm sorry it took so long.” Void's soft, remorseful voice snaps her back to the kitchen.

“Pardon?”

“Heating up the milk,” he says, handing her the mug she’s chosen. Steam curls up from the drink, but the mug’s not scalding to the touch.

“Oh. No. That's fine,” she says, taking a sip. It’s good. Calming. She can certainly fall asleep to it.

But her appreciation is lost on him. Instead, his frown deepens. “You looked upset.”

She stares at the mug. “I'm not upset about that.”

“Is it about my sister?”

It’s startling, and she’s almost certain that her eyes are wide, her mouth agape in shock as she looks up at him. Of course he’s no fool. Of course he knows. But to be asked something like that by someone who undeniable cares for the subject of her loathing shakes her to her core. That's none of your business, is what she almost blurts out. But the mug in her bare hands is warm. Just the right temperature. Even he doesn’t deserved to be lashed out at after doing her a favor.

“About myself,” she confesses. It's not a complete lie. But it’s not the entire truth either. It's a little bit of both.

She’s not certain, if she should even be discussing something like this with Void in the first place. They’ve hardly spoken before. It’s possible that he even actively avoided her. He’s said as much that he knew she’s not as welcoming towards his sister as the others have been. But even admitting that she’s upset with herself feels as if a load’s been lifted from her shoulders. So maybe, maybe it’s not a bad thing. For her, at least.

“Is that why you can’t sleep?” he asks softly, staring at the tiled floor. She doesn’t know for how long she doesn’t answer, but it might have been long enough, as he moves away, dragging his feet.

She stares at the same spot he’s found interest in, and it’s when he’s scrubbing the double boiler clean that she looks up and forces out, “Does the same thing happen with you?”

“Sometimes,” he says. His hand stills. He closes his eyes. “A lot of times,” he amends. “I did a lot of terrible things. It’s hard not to be upset with myself.” In slower, more thoughtful movements, he resumes his scrubbing. “I don’t regret saving my sister. But, sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to. I wish she didn’t….” He doesn’t finish. There isn’t any need for him to.

“You’re making up for it now, no?”

He shakes his head. Turns on the faucet to rinse off the soap. “It’s not enough. It never will be.”

She certainly won't argue with that. Even she agrees. However, “Wouldn’t you agree that what you’re doing is better than doing nothing?”

“They told me the same thing," he says quietly, drying the pans with a dishrag before putting them back where he first found them. "It….” Doesn’t always make him feel better.

She frowns. Unsure of what to think of how she can make assumptions about his line of thought.

Most people would say, it’s fine. She’s doing fine. She’d be better off this way. She can succeed on her own. And she listens to those praises. Those encouragements. Basks in them. But there are times, frustrating times, when she’d rather they all shut up and let her feel. Because her feelings make sense, and they’re hers, and who are they to dictate how she ought to feel anyway? She’s the Princess Overlord of Gorgeous, Seraphina! She does what she wants, feels what she feels.

She can’t deny him, if he felt something similar. If he’d rather people didn’t say empty reassurances about how much he’s helping. About how the people are grateful for what he’s doing when it’s likely that most of them continue to resent him for robbing them of their homes and families. His thoughts are undoubtedly heavier than hers. She’s certain of that, at the very least.

“Would you rather stop then?” she asks before taking another sip.

“No. I want to keep helping.”

“Then do it because it’s what you want.” He stares at her as if she grew another head. Frowning, she rubs her mug's handle in thought. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you’ll never be able to make up for all of your crimes. You already seem rather decided on that, and I hardly have any desire to convince you otherwise. But this is what you want to do, no? You want to help in any way that you're able. Then do it. If it would aid you in sleeping at night, do it. You needn’t prove yourself to anyone. Just do it for yourself. Satisfy yourself. Is that not good enough for you?”

“That sounds…selfish.”

Seraphina tuts. They’re demons. They’re expected to be selfish. But she doesn’t say that. Instead, “It’s not as if you’d stop helping, no? There’s no harm in giving yourself comfort, even in your own thoughts. You're simply reassuring yourself. Let yourself find a bit of happiness in what you do. Or is that where your problem lies?”

He looks away. Not a word out of him.

She stares. And stares. And stares. She shouldn’t be surprised. Not really. Not when it’s evident that he’s really, truly remorseful. It should have occurred to her that there exists the possibility of him thinking the way he does. But it’s still appalling to see someone admit it as much.

She grew up in comfort. She grew up thinking that it’s something she deserved. Before the war, she knew nothing but it, and ever since the restoration of her Netherworld to its former glory, she’s been determined to ensure that even her people would have it for as long as they live under her rule as well. If she deserves happiness, so do they.

Which is why, in the face of someone who’s given up, she can only feel unending frustration. He’s living. Breathing. For what purpose does he continue to do so other than to accomplish the goal he’s found for himself and to find comfort at the end of it?

To feel, to let oneself feel regardless of what others say is one thing. She believes in that. She will fight for that right. But to deny oneself the right to feel in the first place is unacceptable. To deny oneself comfort is unfathomable. It goes against what she desires for herself and for her people. And that won’t do.

“Are you telling me,” she demands, sounding much more high-pitched and critical than she intended, “that you’ve given up on being happy?”

 _Now_ , he chooses to meet her glare. Brow furrowed, fists clenched, he snaps back, “I don’t have the right.” It’s the first sign of anger that she’s heard from him that night, and she can only keep her hands from shaking too much, lest she let the contents of her mug spill all over her lap. Worse, let the mug itself break in her grasp.

“Everyone does,” she hisses. “And you are trying!”

“I thought that… _you_ , at least, didn’t think lightly of my sins.” He sounds betrayed. Is that honestly what he thought of her?

“I don’t. I still hold you responsible for the war. Those sins will never be forgotten. But make no mistake. I refuse to allow you to continue with this mentality under my roof. You want people to resent you? Worry not. People do. They will likely continue until they breathe their last breath. But you’re still living. You have your rights. Finding comfort, even in something minute, is not something that anyone should be allowed to take from you.”

“I didn’t _want_ to keep living,” he spits out. “I asked Killia. Majorita. The rest of you. I was even willing to do it myself. Yet I was refused.”

“Because it wouldn’t have done anyone any good!” She was against welcoming him back then. Pointed out how ridiculous the idea of him joining them was. But Sir Killia couldn’t be deterred at the time, and, years later, his judgment proved to be right. “And this. This is the same. This is yet another attempt of finding an easy way out.”

Void scoffs. She almost jumps at the sound of it. Almost. “I’ve heard about how your mind works. I didn’t think I’d get to hear it.”

She turns away, breathing heavily as she sets down the mug on the counter. It’s no longer as warm as it had been when he first handed it to her.

When she looks back at him, her lips are set into a hard line as she stands up. She walks up to him and peers up at him. He’s inches taller than she is, but she refuses to allow that detail to get in her way. “You don’t think you deserve happiness. So when something hurts, you can simply say, it’s fine. You’re used to it. You deserve it. And it won’t hurt as much as a result. You’ll no longer be disappointed. You’re resigned to it, no? An easy way out. But even you deserve a little comfort. Even if you were simply telling yourself that you’re doing what you do for yourself.”

“Do you really think the people I’ve hurt would accept that?” His voice is quieter. A whisper that she wouldn’t have heard if the kitchen were in its usual bustle of activity. But they were the only ones in the large room. She hears every sound he makes, even the sound of his own shaky breathing.

“I don’t know,” she admits, leaning back as she closes her eyes and attempts to steady her own breathing. When she opens them once more, she’s a little calmer. Just a little. “Perhaps some would. Some wouldn’t. I care not. You’re not required to suffer endlessly to please them. You can both atone and find moments of comfort.”

“It won’t feel genuine,” he says, glaring at the sink, as if it’s the one that’s been needling him.

She stamps her foot against the floor. It doesn’t sound nearly as good as when she does it with her heeled sandals, with their satisfying clack and echo, but it serves its purpose. “It will. Of course, it will.”

“How do you know?” he demands through gritted teeth.

“Because it feels genuine to me.” And if it did to her, her of all people, others would think the same, no? Would it help, if she told him that she didn’t have faith in him at all when he showed himself to them once more all those years ago? Would it help, if she told him she assumed he at least found happiness when he spent time with his family while she also felt that his work for the restoration didn’t lose value regardless?

He still refuses to look at her, and that’s when the reality of it dawns on her. It makes her want to scream, when her words are unable to reach another. Why she even bothered with him in the first place now escapes her. But she’s already here. She can’t pretend that she didn’t hear the words that he said. And the severity of it makes her hands tremble.

“Very well. I’m aware that I can’t convince you in one night,” she concedes, sighing. “But know, at least, that I won’t change my mind.”

No matter what she says now, she won’t be able to chase away those thoughts that screamed about unworthiness and demanded suffering. She can’t even get rid of her own thoughts about Sir Killia and Liezerota in one night. How can she possibly expect him to internalize something that’s against what he’s strongly believed in for years?

But as Christo himself told her, it’s a long process. He was likely trying to root out all the internalized stereotypes that his own society had crammed into his head himself, when he spoke to her back then. And even she has found the drive to actively try to rid herself of toxic thoughts. But Void, he’s different. He’s given up on himself, and she can’t very well expect him to have a sudden epiphany in the middle of the night on his own. Not when that didn’t happen on its own already.

She should tell Christo. Or Liezerota. They’re better at this. In contrast, Seraphina’s been self-centered for the most of her life.

But it’s also been years since he’s joined their ranks, and he’s likely had those thoughts for that long, even with his understanding sister by his side. He’s given up that long. If he needs someone just as stubborn as he is to shake him awake, she could do that. She could.

Maybe she would.

Seraphina sighs again. She turns back towards the counter. Without a sound, she takes the abandoned lid of the cookie tin and replaces it. What remains of the milk has lost most of its warmth. It’s as if it had been all for naught. But it’s not freezing. Perhaps her attempts that night do mean something. She gulps the rest of milk down, and, after she’s drank the last drop, to her surprise, Void gestures for the mug.

“I’ll wash it,” he explains softly.

Well. She certainly has no interest in getting her sleeves soaked. She hands the mug to him, and he takes it wordlessly. She could have left then. Or even kept her distance. But she walks up next to him, peering at his hands as they cleaned the mug. He works quickly. Efficiently. If his sister had him do the chore plenty of times, it’s no surprise.

“Thank you. For the milk,” she finds herself saying. She’s not certain if he heard it over the sound of running water.

But there’s a quiet hum of acknowledgment. Then, “You’re welcome.” He breathes. Shifts. In even quieter tones than her voice, he then says, “I’m sorry, for the things I said. Implying that you were foolish, and…everything else.”

She hasn’t been expecting an apology. Far from it. She expected him to stop talking with her altogether. To go back to avoiding her as she suspected he’s been doing until now. Maybe she’ll know for sure, tomorrow, after he’s had the time to look at the situation objectively. For now, she’ll grace him with a smile. “Accepted. But I take it you’d rather I give up on convincing you altogether.”

“That would be preferable.” He turns off the water and reaches for a dishrag.

“I don’t want to,” she says, aware that she likely sounds like a petulant child.

“You’ll only waste your time.”

“How I spend my time is up to me, no?”

“I suppose,” he says, sounding resigned to his fate of being pestered in the future as he places the mug back inside the drawer they pulled it from.

“Indeed. Now, walk me back,” she demands. She’s had quite enough of that room, and, with that last task of his done, there’s no more reason to stay. It’s only reasonable. Besides, “I’m a lady, no?”

“You’re also an Overlord,” he says, grabbing his balance book along with the rest of his belongings from where he left them on the counter.

“True. I’d rather you did anyway,” she says, placing her hands on her hips. She may be in her nightgown, but she can still express her authority in this Netherworld this way. “Unless you’re against it, of course.”

She expects him to decline. She hasn't expected, “I’m not. After you.”

The walk back to her room is a mostly quiet affair. The only sounds that could be heard aside from their breathing are the clacking of Void’s shoes against the tiled floor. Seraphina yawns once, covering her mouth as she does so, and he follows suit. Now that the fire of their unforeseen argument has died down, the purpose of her trip to the kitchen finally catches up to her. She laughs, small and short, and she catches a glimpse of a faint smile from him when she sneaks a peek. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? She’ll take it.

When they arrive in front of her room, she faces him and finally, finally manages to say, “I do apologize, for raising my voice earlier. I shouldn’t have.” It’s difficult to admit as much, but he deserves to hear it. “However, I won’t apologize for saying that you deserve to find comfort. You do.”

He gives her a pained smile for her trouble. “You really won’t give up on that?”

“No,” she says, holding her sleepy head up high. “Didn’t you hear? I’m not one to do such a thing.”

“Should I start getting used to it?” It’s not wariness that she hears in his voice, quiet and hesitant as it is. It’s something else entirely, but she can’t quite put a finger on it. Perhaps if she were less likely to land on her face, she would have been able to figure it out.

“You should, yes,” she mumbles, peering up at him. “Goodnight, Void.” She gives him one final smile before returning to the safety of her room.

He mutters something in return, but, having closed the door too quickly, she misses it the first time. The ribbon securing her robe around her gets caught in the door, however, and she opens it again, pulling the offending ribbon inside. It’s then that Void looks back and gives her a nod. “Goodnight, Seraphina.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more ways to find me, [here's my Carrd](https://artwaltzed.carrd.co/).


End file.
